


Dreams of Lieseil

by cutmylisp



Series: Dreams Of Lieseil Series [1]
Category: Palaye Royale (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-War, Dystopia, Gen, lieseil inc, warhol stars
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-03
Updated: 2020-06-03
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:55:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24521203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cutmylisp/pseuds/cutmylisp
Summary: In a post-war world, a group of survivors encounters an orphan boy in a cemetery.L̴i̴e̴s̸e̶i̸l̵ ̴s̸e̴e̸s̵ ̸a̸l̶l̴
Series: Dreams Of Lieseil Series [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1772062
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	1. An Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> Based on 'The Ends Beginning' (EP) and 'The Bastards' (album) by Palaye Royale, as well as ideas and lanscapes of the Lieseil INC universe (created by various members of Palaye Royale)

**“So, if you really go the whole way and see how you feel the prospect of vanishing, if all your efforts and all your achievements and all your attainments are turning into dust, nothingness; what is the feeling?”**

~

In a world gone quiet, the people remember the noise. The Earth is silent in hope that mother nature can fix what has been broken. The winds of change have been driven away, as the work was done for them by selfish leaders.  
It has been twelve years since nuclear war devastated the Earth. During this time, life itself has remembered what nuclear energy can do to the physicality of a person, their friends and families, their homes, and therefore, their mentality.  
I have taken people in, given them a new home and helped to treat their illnesses. Many of them refuse treatment. They don’t understand that they must get worse before they get better. They must realise that I am not the bad guy.  
I’m not who they say I am. I am not the enemy.


	2. Chapter 1 - Remington

The climb up to the surface isn’t far. The rungs on the ladder are stiff and rusty. They’re rough under my calloused hands, but the orange metal isn’t sharp enough to cut through my skin. I pause as I reach the top of the ladder, listening for any sound of life.

I push the round grate above my head and peep into the street. The road is empty, green plants taking over pathways and spilling onto the asphalt and litter blowing in the breeze.

“All clear,” I mutter as I push the grate onto the street. I lift myself onto the hard surface and take in the world around me. The air smells so sweet up here, the cool breeze liberates me from the smell of metal and wastewater. The signs on all the road-side shops still say ‘open’, though the broken glass and graffiti says otherwise. Birds sing in overgrown trees and cicadas scream back at them. Even the ants are still working; still surviving.

A hand suddenly appears from the hole I came out of.

“Are you going to pull me up, or what?” A voice asks. I grab the hand and help a person from the deep hole. As he emerges, he brushes his long, dark hair out of his face. He wears a blue shirt, long black pants and a pair of running sneakers.

“You’re not even going to give me a minute to take this in?” I ask him.

“None of us have seen the surface for a while Remington, you’re not special. Now pull me out!” Another voice says from the hole.

“Don’t be mean, Emerson,” The man beside me says, his hands on his hips. “You don’t have to be rude just because Remington is one with nature and you aren’t.” I chuckle quietly and we both reach down to help pull the third man from the hole. He holds a grey train-driver cap on his head. He wears long socks and black three-quarter pants, along with a striped shirt and blazer.

“Fuck you, Sebastian.” Emerson replies as he dusts himself off. “Man, I hate that fucking hole.”

“Don’t we all,” I say, smiling at him. Emerson stares back at me and blows his hair out of his face.

I turn and look at everything around us. I listen for a moment, checking for danger once again, then turn back to the two behind me.

“First,” I start, “We search the shops. Then we go into town.”

“We’ve searched every corner of those buildings. They’re crumbling anyway. We should just go to town.” Emerson replies.

“I’ll crumble you!” I spit back. “Come on. Another search can’t hurt.”

Sebastian shakes his head and starts walking over to the buildings. He chuckles quietly. Emerson mutters something that I can’t make out. I’m not sure I want to hear it. We walk over to the line of shops, treading on rock and rubber.

Upon reaching the front door to a store, Sebastian raises his foot and pushes the already shattered glass on the door of the store. It cracks and falls to the ground in pieces, the sound of it filling the quiet of the site like a plate on tiles. He proceeds to reach for the door with his bare hands and jumps back when some leftover glass pierces his skin. He looks back at us, sees us watching, then shoots his gaze back to his hand. He huffs and pushes the door open.

I feel miniature pieces of glass skimming across my feet through the holes in my shoes as I step through the doorway.

“If we see any shoes, they’re mine.” I tell the two of them as I enter the small room. It’s covered in debris of all sorts, worse than outside. It used to be a general store. All the cabinets and shelves have been emptied of any merchandise it used to host, but sometimes things that have fallen to the floor are still of use.

“There’d better be some gin in here.” He says under his breath.

“You really had to bring your alcohol addiction into an actual dystopia, didn’t you?” Emerson taunts.

“Says you and your weed.” Sebastian fires back.

Emerson sighs, “Now I want a smoke.”

“Guys,” I say, waving at them, “We’re trying to survive here, not fulfil our deepest desires. Let’s find something so we can all eat tonight, yeah?”

Both look at me sadly, obviously feeling withdrawal, and go in opposite directions to search the room.

I move to the counter-top and look under chairs and through the drawers for anything useful. I find keys, tape, a pen, a Wi-Fi-password and a small stack of money. I grin and hold it like a fan.

“You boys wouldn’t happen to know anywhere quiet, would you?” I say in a soft, womanly tone, batting my eyelashes. Sebastian peeks up from behind a shelf and laughs at me.

“If you don’t stop with that voice, a grave” Emerson says in a monotone voice without turning away from the open cabinet he is searching.

“Jesus, alright.” I reply quietly.

“This isn’t looking promising,” Sebastian announces, going back to rummaging around, “I think we should move to town.”

Emerson turns around and begins to walk out. “Fine with me.” He says.

I look over to Sebastian. He rolls his eyes and strides out of the store after Emerson. I follow reluctantly.


	3. Chapter 2 - Remington

I feel like a king, walking in the centre of the battered road. I hear nothing but my footsteps as I stride on the white lines. It feels like I’m on a catwalk. We’re able to be careless in this part of the world. We’re the only ones who come out here. It’s a sense of freedom we rarely get.

In the centre of the town is a church, and behind it is a cemetery. It is the only place outside that we visit regularly. Emerson enjoys visiting the church. He has drawn almost every corner of it, but still believes that there is more to be discovered. His kind of wonder gives me hope.

Sebastian, however, takes a swig of the blood of Christ whenever we visit. _“Wine is wine”_ he says.

I visit the cemetery when we’re there. I used to leave arrangements of flowers on a different grave every visit, but now I pay my respects with my thoughts. The other two think it’s a waste of time. They don’t know that most people in the graveyard were sufferers of radiation poisoning.

Those people hadn’t been far enough away from the bombs. They were just unlucky, but that doesn’t change anything. If the war didn’t happen, those people would still be alive.

We reach the church in good time. The doors are propped closed with a steel bar at the entrance. Emerson walks up to it and kicks it as hard as he can. The steel clangs loudly on the ground. He watches it roll to the side, pleased with himself. Sebastian enters first, going straight for the back door. I roll my eyes and follow him, and I wave Emerson off, who goes to sit in one of the long wooden chairs, opening his sketchbook.

The church is huge in terms of roof space. Cobwebs hang from the ceiling like vines in a jungle and the stained-glass windows make the place seem like the end of a rainbow at sunset. The wooden beams and the altar still look relatively the same as they would have looked years ago, although they are also riddled with cobwebs and dust. Looters must have decided to leave the most sacred places alone, as many of the long chairs have been smashed and there are massive holes in walls. Still, this building is the most preserved of anything in this town. It brings a calmness to me every time we visit. It makes me think of life before the war.

Through the back door and to the left, Sebastian finds the wine cabinet once more. I leave him to it and walk through the back door, into the cemetery.

I look at my feet until I’m in the centre of the cemetery. The breeze brushes the side of my face and I sigh, smiling ever so slightly. Although this is a sad place, it is also a comforting one. I lower myself to the ground and lie on my back. The sun is warm on my skin. I close my eyes slowly and soak up the heat. It is refreshing to be by myself. Being around my brothers all the time is exhausting, with our bickering and disagreements. Even so, I am so lucky to have them. Many people lost their families during the war. In most cases, families and friends were separated in the panic of crowds trying to leave the country. I can’t imagine life without Emerson and Sebastian. They are the most important people in my life. If something were to happen to them, I couldn’t live with myself.

When I next open my eyes, the sun has hidden behind a cloud. I breathe in deeply and smell the earth around me. The dirt under me is comfortable enough to fall asleep on, but with the sun now hidden, it chills me. Another breeze blows against me and I shiver. Goosebumps appear all over my arms. Singlets are not good for Autumn. I must remember that.

As I exhale, I sit up and look to the side of the cemetery. I see something I don’t expect. A small child with long, dark, curly hair. He wears a dark-green puffer jacket and long back baggy pants. He kneels at one of the graves.

My eyes widen, and I reach inside my shirt. From the side pocket, I grab a pocketknife and flick it open. I creep slowly and quietly around and behind the child. As I sneak behind him and grip the knife in my left hand, I hear him mutter something.

“I’m sure you made it to heaven. So, why haven’t you sent an angel to take care of me yet?” He softly asks.

Where is his group? Are his family here? Why are my hands shaking?

“Hey Remington,” I hear Emerson shout from the church. I look to the door slowly. “I didn’t bring the right notebook,” He steps out of the back doors, “I think we should head ba- SHIT!”

Emerson fumbles around his belt and pulls out a baton. He inches his way towards me. The kid has looked up now and has his hands in the air. He takes a step backwards and bumps into me. His entire body turns, frightened by me. He looks up. His face is pale, slightly freckled and filled with fear.

“Please don’t hurt me, I only wanted to visit.” He pleads his hands still in the air.

I try to speak, but only stuttered vowels come out of my mouth.

Emerson jumps behind the child. “Get the FUCK back!” He yells. The child does as Emerson says and moves to a close fence.

“What’s all the shouting for?” Sebastian says, casually walking out of the back doors. When he sees the child, he also brings out a weapon. He runs to where Emerson stands with a pair of scissors in hand.

“Where is your group?” Emerson questions the child furiously.

“I don’t have one.” He answers calmly.

“Come on,” Sebastian says, poking him in the ribs with the back of the scissors. “Everyone has a group.”

“I- I don’t have one!” The kid replies again, less sure of himself this time, eyeing Sebastian’s scissors carefully.

Emerson shoves him into the fence. “I’m going to ask this one more time, kid. Where is your group?”

“There is no group! I have no group! Please, believe me!” He pleads. Emerson whacks him with the baton. The child grabs his shoulder in pain. I look at the gravestone the kid was kneeling at. It’s wooden and has been carved from scratch. It reads:

_Sammy and Freddie_  
_(Mum and Dad)_  
_The bravest people in the world_

“Won’t come the easy way,” Emerson says, “Fine, we’ll get this out of you the hard way.”

He lifts the baton again, ready to hit the boy even harder, when I speak up.

“Stop! Emerson!” I yell. Emerson turns around.

“What?” He asks angrily.

“His parents are here!” I tell him, pointing towards the homemade gravestone.

Emerson looks at the gravestone, the boy, then back to me. His face softens, then he sighs and mutters, “Shit”. He turns back to the kid and grabs his shoulder.

“I didn’t know you had people here.” Emerson says, rubbing the boy’s shoulder. The kid looks up with a blank expression as Emerson walks away. Emerson walks past me, slowly to the other side of the cemetery and sits on the grass, twiddling stems of it between his fingers. I turn back around to see both the kid and Sebastian looking at me, dumbstruck.

I take a breath.

“So, you don’t have a group?” I ask the boy.

“No.” He replies, sadly, though he doesn’t look away from me.

“Well then,” I start, looking between Sebastian and the boy. Sebastian shakes his head slightly, predicting the proposal I’m about to make.

“I guess we’re your group now.”


	4. Chapter 3 - Emerson

I’m silent as we walk back home. I kick at the gravel under my feet and listen to the empty sounds of the deserted town. I hadn’t noticed how grey looking everything is until now. The houses are falling apart, gardens are dry in some parts and overgrown in others, and large potholes in the road aren’t a rare sighting. The sky above us is clear, but the blue colour isn’t anywhere near as bright as it used to be.

It’s easy to fantasize about before the war, but I don’t have the same picture in my head as everyone else does. I can’t relate to people when they talk about the past, because my past is before anyone alive can remember.

I used to think of times before modern industrialisation more than the life that was in front of me. I regret not living my life in the moment. My head was always swimming with pictures of the Victorian era. I spent my days drawing the oldest European buildings I could find and studying the architecture until I knew every corner of each building. It was more than an interest; it was my entire life. That’s what I think of when people mention times before the war.

I take a pencil from my pocket and fiddle with it in my right hand, tapping my leg and spinning it through my fingers.

“So, uh,” Remington asks quietly, “Do you have a name, kid?”

The child is silent for a moment, as if he’s trying to remember.

“Ramar,” He replies. The breeze blows in his face and moves his long, dark, curly hair. His eyes look forward. He’s not focusing on anything but looking ahead. He’s got a tough soul. I guess he would have to, growing up in a world like this. He’s probably got great lying skills to compliment his hard looks.

“Ramar,” Remington repeats, “That’s a parallel.”

“Palindrome.” I correct him.

“Same difference.” He says.

I huff and fix the hat on my head.

“Are you from around here?” asks Remington. “Originally, I mean.”

“I don’t know,” Ramar replies, “I don’t think we would have come this way. Too much sadness and too little supplies.”

I take another look at the rows of houses on either side of the road, then reach into my pockets and pull out two cans of tuna fish, a half-empty pack of cigarettes and my pocket watch. He may be right about the supplies. I shake my head and shove the items back into my coat pockets.

“Where do you live?” Remington starts, “I mean, where do you sleep at night? Like, a home base I guess.”

I narrow my eyes at Remington. He’s changing his speech hoping that the kid will understand him.

Ramar looks up at Remington. His eyebrows have dropped, and his eyes have a look of suspicion in them. “Why should I tell you?” He asks, “You’re strangers. I don’t know that you won’t loot and leave.”

Remington’s eyes widen. I can almost see his heart drop. I stifle a laugh.

He takes a quick breath. “Well, I guess we should ask before bringing you to our home.”

“You’re taking me into your home?” Ramar asks.

“We’re taking him into our home?” I question.

Remington looks up at me, squinting in a crooked, pleading way. “Yes, we are.”

I take my hands out of my pockets. “This guy doesn’t trust us,” I say, gesturing at Ramar, “Why would he want to come?”

Remington looks down to Ramar, “You do want to come with us, don’t you?”

“Um,” He starts.

“He’s going to drain our resources, learn our secrets and then bring his people to take the rest of our stuff!” I shout.

“He’s just a kid, Emerson,” Remington snaps back at me.

“Yeah, a kid who’s grown up in this harsh world. How do we know he won’t sneak back to his group tell them where we are?”

Remington opens his mouth to say something, but Ramar cuts him off.

“I’ve told you before, I don’t have any people!” He yells. He gives me a hard look. “Not anymore.”

Remington’s face falls showing his sympathy for the boy. Ramar looks away from me angrily as Remington puts a hand on his shoulder. This kid is good.

“I’m not buying it.” I state. I look toward the crossroads at the end of the street.

“I trust him, Emerson,” says Remington, his voice quieter.

I bite down on my tongue before replying, “Your trust will get the better of you, Remington.”

He shakes his head as he looks away.

I glance behind us, checking to see that we haven’t lost Sebastian. He’s walking along the double white lines in the middle of the road, wine bottle in hand, giggling to himself.

“Sebastian!” I yell.

“What?” He yells back, keeping his gaze at the white lines below his feet. If he’s drunk, I swear to god I will kill him.

“How much of Jesus’ blood have you drank?”

Sebastian lifts the bottle to his eyes and measures the empty part of the bottle with his fingers, then holds his hand up to the sky. The space between his fingers is about two inches. “A little bit?” He says grinning.

I’m sure he drank much more at the church. I like wine as much as the next person, but Sebastian is head over heels for it. I once watched him down a whole bottle in a few minutes. He’s a drunk at heart.

“You’d better act natural when we get back, or we’re all going to get murdered.” I yell, emphasizing the word ‘murdered’.

I turn my head forward and listen to Sebastian’s pleas and promises behind me. I sigh. We are so dead.

We walk to the middle of the crossroads and stand around the round metal plate. Remington stands across from me with the kid close behind and Sebastian stands next to me. He takes a large swig of his wine.

“Get rid of it.” I tell him. Sebastian lifts the bottle above his head and throws it as far as he can. It crashes to the ground. Glass and red liquid spills everywhere. I sigh and bring my hand to my face.

“Idiot,” I mumble.

“What?” Sebastian asks wobbly.

Remington leans down and removes the metal plate revealing a ladder leading down the deep hole. He looks up to the two of us, as if asking for our opinion. There is no way I can convince Remington that this kid could be our demise. Not yet.

“Don’t blame me when we get looted, that’s all I’m saying.” I tell him. He smiles a little as he looks towards Sebastian.

“Ladies first,” Remington says, gesturing from Sebastian to the ladder.

He points at Remington and laughs, “Man,” He says between chuckles, “Fuck you.”

Sebastian begins his descent into the dark, smelly hole. Remington follows. Ramar glares at me before he climbs down. I give him an unamused gaze. I lower myself into the hole, then pull the metal plate over the entrance.

I step down the many rungs of the ladder and ready myself for the merciless scent of wastewater to stick to my clothes again. The walls around the ladder are covered in graffiti - mostly signatures and tags. People on this wall have a reason to write their names here. They’re leaders, innovators, heroes. I can’t wait until my name is listed here.

Once at the bottom of the ladder, everyone stands next to the still waste-water-river in the large cylindrical tunnel. The tunnel is dark, slimy and smells of old sweaty socks. Sebastian takes a deep breath.

“Mm,” he says, his hands on his hips, “I didn’t miss this.”

“How did you build this?” Ramar asks, gazing around the place in wonder.

Remington chuckles. “We have the people from before the war to thank for it.”

“Oh, it’s old.” Ramar replies, “That’s why it smells so bad.”

“Not exactly,” mutters Remington, “We couldn’t have lived a clean life without these pipes.”

Ramar’s face twists when he figures out what the smell is.

“C’mon, kid,” Sebastian says, “It only gets worse from here.”

Sebastian leads the way along the tunnel, followed by Remington, Ramar and me. We keep close to the side. Sebastian chatters excitedly about how one day he will convince the leaders to liberate the wine from its’ holding cell at the church and how everyone will celebrate for days. I grin at the absurdity of the thought of the underground celebrating. Remington sighs at him, but Sebastian doesn’t notice and continues to talk.

I keep my eyes on Ramar, waiting for him to make a move to escape. He doesn’t glance around the place as I thought he would, but he does look up at Remington every now and then. Remington, however, keeps his eyes forward. I’m beginning to think Remington has plans for this kid.

Eventually, we reach the main gate. As we approach it, I tell Sebastian to act like he’s sleepy. Usually, that quietens him down enough to fool the guards into believing he’s is sober. Ramar slows his pace as he notices the tall gates. I remember my first time at these gates when we first arrived while looking at the kid. It scared me to have a place to settle in after wandering for years. Who knows how long this kid has been wandering for? Against my better instincts, I move closer to him.

“Hey, kid.” I whisper. He turns his head to me, his eyes wide with fear. I take a deep breath. It’s too late to back out now.

“Be tough. Act like you belong here, and you will.” I conclude. He nods at me and faces forward. Remington turns and grins at me. I reply with an eyeroll.

We come to the front of the gate. The large pipe widens, and the air becomes slightly more breathable, though no amount of perfume could ever relieve the walls of its stench. There are two men stationed out the front. One has short red hair, a stern face and blue eyes, while the other has shoulder-length, wavy hair and brown eyes. Sebastian salutes them as he moves through the gate. The men shake their heads and chuckle. Remington moves through, but Ramar is stopped.

“Halt!” The red haired one says, putting his arm between Ramar and the entrance. “Who is this one?”

Remington tries to step forward but is stopped by the wavy-haired guard.

“He was alone. We found him by himself in a graveyard. He says he has no people.” Remington tells them calmly.

“Is that right,” The first guard says, kneeling to Ramar’s level. “And how do you expect we feed him when we can barely feed ourselves?”

The red-haired guard looks up at me. “How much did you find today, boys?”

I try to come up with something that will make our small load seem not as terrible as it is, but find nothing to say except a defeated, “Not much.”

I pull my hands from my pockets, revealing the practically useless group of items our trip brought. Remington does the same showing just as little success. Sebastian has already dumped the contents of his pockets onto the fold-out table next to him, most of the items being broken crayons and small packets of things. The guard gives me a disappointed look and moves his gaze back to Ramar.

“Have you seen him in combat?” The guard asks. He lifts Ramar’s arms. To this, Ramar shoves his hands behind his back. The guard growls and pulls his arms up with more force, looking at his skinny limbs as if they were a display at a museum. I lower my eyebrows at the guard from behind his back. Remington tries to push forward but is stopped by the brown-haired guard yet again. He glares at the guard and shoves him slightly. The guard reaches to his belt, gripping a weapon sitting just under his shirt.

“Like Remington said,” I begin, a heated tone in my voice, “we found him in a graveyard. He was at peace; no need to fight.”

“Pity,” The first guard mutters.

“I’m sorry, what exactly was your name again?” I ask him.

“Richard.” He replies, keeping his eyes on the young boy. He turns the kid around, much to Ramar’s discomfort.

“No wonder,” I mumble.

“Do you know much about your family background?” the red-haired guard asks.

Ramar takes a second to think, then replies, “My mother and father never talked about family. They always told us that we were all that mattered; that history has no purpose anymore. The only family I ever knew were my parents, my brother and my sister.”

This guard has no right to search the kid like this. He looks no older than 11, and I’m beginning to believe his dead family story, as much as I try not to. I still don’t trust him in our camp, but he shouldn’t be treated like a wanted criminal.

After some patting down and an eternity of me eyeing Remington, waiting for the second guard to pull out his weapon, Richard stands up.

“I’m afraid we can’t allow this one inside.” He tells us.

“What?” Sebastian bellows.

Ramar looks up at me. I frown at him and shrug my shoulders, then he averts his eyes.

“Why not?” demands Remington.

“Well,” he starts, “he’s quite a thin fella, isn’t he? He would have used a lot of our resources to become fit for any job. We have no use for him in the defence force if no one has any combat record of his. We also have enough children in the dormitories already, and by the looks of him, he’s ready to grow, and that means he will need more food than usual to be able to survive. That would also mean he would need new clothes. We have little to no clothes in our laundry.” As he finishes, Richard turns back to Ramar, ready to escort him out of the premises.

“I’ll share my rations with him then!” Remington blurts out. “We’ll go half and half. I don’t need as much as I get anyway.”

The guard in front of Remington holds him back from the gate as he counters the first guard’s statements.

“And we’ll let him sleep with us! We have an extra bunk in our room!” yells Sebastian, tripping over one of the table legs and steadying himself.

Ramar grins at Remington and Sebastian. Richard huffs at the two of them. Remington looks at me insistently, waiting for me to say something. I sigh, narrowing my eyes.

“When he grows, he can have some of my clothes. I probably have too many as it is,” I say.

Ramar looks back at me and smiles gratefully.

“None of my hats though!” I say, pointing at him. He almost laughs as he looks back towards Remington.

“Fellas,” Richard says, “As kind as you all are, I’m afraid we can’t afford to have someone else in here. There simply isn’t enough room.”

Remington’s face drops once more. He stops trying to get past the guard in front of him. I watch something come to a boil inside of him as his eyebrows crease diagonally, and his arms grow stiff.

“Besides,” Richard continues, “the boy doesn’t know his heritage past his parents. What if the non-existent people come looking for him? Our community would be toast!”

“Come on, Richard, the kid has no home.” The second guard says, turning away from the gate where Remington and Sebastian stand.

“This isn’t your decision, Daniel.” Replies Richard.

“I’m just saying,” Daniel counters, “if these guys are willing to give up their time and space for this kid, we should at least give him a chance.”

Richard turns away from Ramar and continues to argue with Daniel. As I listen to their quarrel, I see Sebastian waving wildly, telling me to come through the gate. I watch the space between the guards and the gate widen as they move towards each other, their argument becoming more heated by the second. When I’m sure that I am out of the guards’ vision, I put my hand on Ramar’s back and start leading him slowly to the door, before I’m stopped by a loud voice.

“What’s all the noise about?” It echoes. In the dark, beyond the gate that I was so close to getting through, I see a figure emerge. In my panic, I can’t move. I swear that I can hear the blood pumping through my brain during the silence that is held by us all.

“Is something wrong out here?” it asks. He steps into the light. The owner of the voice is a middle-sized man with grey hair reaching down past his shoulders. He wears a floor-length coat, a white button-up shirt and holds a cane in his right hand.

“Mister Warhol,” Richard utters nervously, “We were just discussing an issue.”

The man walks past Remington and Sebastian, who are watching him carefully.

“And what issue would that be?” Mister Warhol questions, pushing the gate open with ease.

“Three Searchers brought back a boy,” Daniel says. Warhol looks at Ramar and quickly gazes back to the two guards.

“I told them that there isn’t any room, sir,” answers Richard.

“Oh, poppycock.” Warhol replies, waving his free hand at the two guards. He walks in the direction of Ramar and I. “There’s room for everyone here.”

I glance at Richard and Daniel for a moment and notice Richard’s obvious disbelief about the situation. I snicker.

Mister Warhol comes closer and gives me a warm smile. “Barrett, my boy! How’s it looking up there?”

I’m shocked at the mention of my name. I don’t recall him speaking to me in months, and with such a high position in politics, I’m surprised he even knows who I am.

“Uh,” I stutter, “it’s seen better days.”

“And haven’t we all?” Warhol replies.

“I guess so,” I mumble.

He looks down to Ramar, who seems afraid of the man.

“And who is this?” He asks.

“This is the boy,” says Richard, meeting us at Mister Warhol’s side, along with Daniel, “Rameer”

“Ramar,” the young child mutters. Remington swiftly makes his way over to the group. Sebastian follows close behind.

Warhol kneels and looks Ramar up and down carefully. Ramar tucks his hands into his pant-pockets, worried that he will have to raise his arms again.

“He seems like a well-rounded chap,” Mister Warhol begins, “I think there’s a space in our community for him.”

Richard stutters, “But you didn’t even question him!”

I look at Richard’s shocked face, noticing Daniel’s smile widening as he gazes down at the curly-haired boy next to him.

“I’m sure you already did enough of that,” says Warhol, disregarding Richard’s comment. “He’s worth trusting, isn’t he?”

“Yes!” Remington replies, joining me at my side, along with Sebastian. “He’ll keep our trust.”

“Yeah,” slurs Sebastian, giving a thumbs-up. “Yes, I agree.”

Warhol stands up and pats Ramar’s shoulder. He gives Ramar a terrific smile.

“I’ll give you the tour then, shall I?”


End file.
